


All That Is and Forever Shall Be

by poptod



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/M, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Slow Build, Touch-Starved, but you're a ghost, not sure if this qualifies as an au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/poptod
Summary: Being a ghost in the middle of nowhere, tied to a church no one knows exists can be very lonely. Fortunately for you, a man is trying to make himself lonely, and subsequently gains your friendship that he didn’t ask for.(gender neutral reader)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	All That Is and Forever Shall Be

_No one visits my grave anymore,_ you thought to yourself drearily. The wind shivered through grass at your feet, howling through the holes in stone walls but not brushing your skin. You sat against said stone wall, one of the ends of the abandoned church of which was lined all round with gravestones, rotting away and empty with skeletons and vermin. Though above clouds promised a hefty storm, the wild sheep grazing outside the church’s fence didn’t make any move to seek shelter under the roof. Sighing once more you shifted in your seated position, wondering where everyone had gone. **  
**

Surely you weren’t alone - surely there had to be others like you. Not devout enough for heaven and not murderous enough for hell, but simply mundane and lonely enough to be cast back to the earth to wander as spirits. Though, you supposed, no one had dug a grave there in centuries, and during the time you were buried, it was odd if not damning to not be religious. Yet that was exactly what you were, an atheistic, boring farmer, who had no family and no children to speak of, leaving naught a person to seek your only remnants of what was once a life.

Hundreds of years must have passed since you died, but you would never know. The headstone with your name written on it (albeit blurred and dulled with time) tied you to the church, and you could never leave. For all you knew, all of humanity was dead. Or living on the moon.

Ultimately, on a day when it was raining hard enough to fill another ocean, you (or your anxieties) were proven wrong. From off in the distance came movement. High upon a distant hill a tall form lumbered near, dressed in dark clothing in a fashion you had never seen before. In patience grown from years built upon each other you watched, noting the sun behind you shining more red and vibrant than ever before growing dimmer, till the shadows cast the same as the light, and you could just barely make out the face of the distant man.

His face drooped wearily, limping as he moved and keeping his eyes down. Ragged, black hair fell from his head and covered a good deal of his face, shielding him from your view. Tilting your head to the side you noted weapons, a good many of them, hidden away in the folds of his clothing, strapped to his body with leather and blended in quite well with the various buckles and straps adorned like wreaths along his legs, torso, and shoulders.

As usual, there was no indication he saw you. From the way his eyes darted to each sheep upon their movement you could tell he was on edge, looking for suspicion even in the most innocent of animals, thus leaving no possibility that if you were visible he would not have seen you. You figured as much, seeing as the sheep never bothered about you too much - at least not unless you interfered with them.

Phasing through the wall you watched him clear a corner of the church, setting his bags down on the stone floor that had managed to not be ravaged by various wars. There was no fireplace, but seeing as the entire building was made of stone he simply gathered twigs from faraway trees, pulling a small box out of his satchel. In interest you came closer, and with your eyes pressed right up to his hands he struck a light. You gasped, watching how he made fire with such ease, lighting the wood and enveloping the long empty walls with warmth and familiarity. 

He set the small box on the floor, crouching down next to his bags. Though you weren’t very good at it you could read, carefully reading over the words on the box. Strike anywhere matches, it read.

 _What matches?_ You wondered.

In the corner the man mumbled to himself, nonsensical sounds you couldn’t make out as words. From his various bags he pulled a blanket, thick and warm, wrapping himself up in it in front of the fire. You sat beside him, watching the flames sing with their crackling. Every now and then he’d push his hand back into his bag, pulling out something to eat. You couldn’t tell what it was, but he seemed to like it.

Now near to him, you tried to get a grasp on what he looked like beneath unruly hair and grime covering his face, noticing cold eyes and a sharp jaw. Full lips, rounded nose, nice cheekbones. Closer, his hair wasn’t as dark as you’d originally thought - more of a brown than a black, though perhaps that was just the fire playing tricks on your own eyes. 

The rain brought its’ wrath above you, pounding on the sound structure of the roof. Looking the ceiling you thanked whomever for your inability to feel its’ sting, and cursed the very same for the lack of warmth the fire brought. 

The sound of writing came from beside you, curiosity forcing you to look to the man beside you. He had pulled a leather-bound book out of his satchel, along with a wooden pencil, and was writing in it. Illegible to you, but the scribbles were clearly english. In the margins were sketches, scenery, and a lot of sheep and goats. You chuckled, looking at the silly tongue sticking out of a goats’ mouth. He sniffed, stopping to rub his eyes from the raw feeling fire might bring before resuming his task.

This continued only a moment more before he tied the book back together, sealing it from your use. Setting it beside his makeshift bed he settled down, enveloping his entire body in the warm blankets he’d taken with him. You leaned against the wall, watching his breathing slow, watching as the fire died. Sometime in the middle of the night he began shivering, and you glanced at him, wishing you could’ve helped.

 _Curse my form_ , you thought to yourself, leaving the church to stand outside. To his luck the rain had lightened, the drafts of wind no longer pouring water through the holes in the walls, though the ocean that spanned in front of you forever would bring cold air that would surely freeze you, if you could only feel it.

You stayed there, sitting on a nearby boulder, waiting for when the sun would rise.

When at last from behind light came, signaling the beginning of dawn, rustling caught your attention. Inside the man had woken and you rushed to see him, watching him tie his hair back. Outside he wandered, coming to the rocky edge of the ocean and dipping his hands in the freezing water. With that he splashed it on his face, cleansing his skin of the dirt that had riddled it so heavily the night before. Shaking his hands dry he turned back around, showing cleaner features like you’d never seen before.

He looked much better, a little more calm at least, without the weight of all that on him.

You followed after him when he went inside, watching him patting a carefree sheep on the head as he entered. He restarted the fire the same way he had at first, with the strike anywhere matches. The two of you, ignorant of the other, huddled around it, the occasional sniff or shuffle of cloth interrupting an otherwise elongated silence. After a moment he pulled another item you assumed was food out of his ratted bag, impaling it with a nearby stick and holding it over the fire.

It grew darker as the flames grew warmer, nearly enveloping the stick to the point where it was hard to see the food. He just kept it there, letting it burn, before pulling it out right as it began to light aflame. Blowing a quick breath on it the small spark was extinguished, and he let it sit in the air before nibbling away.

 _How odd,_ you thought to yourself.

The rest of the day he did little else but unpack. Though he carried little, he seemed to want to make a stay longer than one night. Out of his various bags and satchels came food, blankets, and trinkets, many of which you couldn’t define any use for. Some were carvings of animals, others stones - just plain and simple stones. Some were shells, or sticks with bark and lichen growing on it. He set these things neatly in a row on a flat rock that had made its’ way inside the church, the corners of his lips twisting up into a crooked half smile when they were all ordered in a clean fashion.

That night he did not stay inside to write, or tend to a fire. He sat outside, on the grassy plain before the short drop onto the rocky terrain that lined the ocean’s shore. Book in left hand and pencil in right he began drawing dots, staring up at the sky every so often. Sitting beside him, following his eyesight you realized he was cataloguing the stars, finding shapes you’d never quite seen before.

With a hefty sigh he closed his book, simply staring up at the sky, before taking another breath and closing his eyes. In curiosity you kept staring at him, trying to find some answer in his silence, or a longing in his movement. There was none. 

You could not sleep. You dare not dream, as any dream would bring you closer to heaven or hell, and you would never chance the thought of hell. The man seemed similarly fashioned as you were, cut from the same cloth of sleepless, endless nights. In simple terms he did not sleep well that night, staring up at the dusty ceiling, hands folded together on his stomach and eyes wide. Through grunts and sighs, tossing and flipping he fell into an uneasy sleep, brows furrowed as he tugged at the soft blanket around him.

He seemed grumpy the next morning. Curt with every action, growling when things didn’t work well. When an unfortunate strike anywhere match did not do its’ intended duty, he threw the box to the ground, hiding his head in his hands and groaning loudly. You almost laughed, if you hadn’t been so worried of being heard. There was little cause for your worry, but it would’ve been rude if that was your first true interaction with him. 

From his bed he grabbed a large, fur coat, one that he used as an extra blanket, and tugged it over his shoulders and arms. Wrapping the belts tightly around him he sheathed each dagger and otherworldly weapon safely in each designated pocket, pulling a smaller bag over his shoulders and promptly leaving.

As you watched him climb over the hills you wondered to yourself, _would he ever come back_? You supposed, most likely, he would. What with the delicate care he took lining all of his stones and twigs together, he wouldn’t forget them, or his giant, fuzzy blanket, or the pillows, or the strike anywhere matches. Those seemed important too. 

To pass the time you took up your regular activities you had before the man had come. Wailing dramatically at your gravestone, staring wistfully into the distance at the shore of the ocean as waves crashed, petting sheep and desperately wishing you could actually feel them. Sheep, you’d discovered many years ago, were somewhat in tune with the dead. They would approach you sometimes, or avoid you if you’d somehow wronged them. Most of the time, if you were petting them, they’d stay still and push up into your hand as though you were really there. It was something you enjoyed immensely; a reminder that you existed. That your life wasn’t a fever dream.

Eventually, some time in the afternoon, he returned. Humming to himself a tune you didn’t know, he seemed in happier spirits than he was before, though keeping his coat on as he started no fire. Instead he pocketed one rock in one of his absurdly large pockets, had all his bags set down, and walked right back outside. With stumbling footsteps you followed behind, but as he wandered too far down the coast, leisurely strolling and taking in the views (though his left hand kept checking his knife was still there), you were very abruptly cast right back to the church.

You’d strayed too far from your grave, and now you sat upon it, cursing yourself once more. You kept your knee high, letting you push your chin against it to rest your head, though it needed no resting. In a somewhat maddening manner, you had no weight, no tangible existence, thus relaxing your head on your hand or knee did little for anything or anyone. Sitting grumpily on your gravestone, you waited for his return. He was the only entertaining thing around.

From the horizon he came, making you practically jump and gasp at his return. He breathed in deep, calm breaths, a contrast from his frustrating morning. Reentering the church he pulled another pebble out of his pocket, holding it in a large hand before setting it carefully alongside the rest of his collection. You watched from behind him, wondering if this was a religious ceremony.

The rest of the evening was spent watching him, notebook in hand, wander through the graveyard. Many of the names you recognized, as you had watched them be buried. You, however, were the first one to be lain underground, thus making your headstone the oldest. When at last he came to the front of the church, where the first stone had been cast, you fidgeted, wondering anxiously whether your name was even readable to someone who had never read your name before. 

It must’ve been hard at least, as he crouched down, squinting his eyes, pencil ready to write down the name as he had been doing with each of the others graves. He tapped the end of his pencil against his chin, continuing his rather menacing gaze, before seemingly understanding.

“Ah,” he said to himself, turning to the white pages of his book to write. “(Y/N) (L/N).”

You smiled, a giddy feeling blooming in your heart as he stood. As he turned, before he could even fully process what had happened, he jumped ten feet in the air, staring directly at you, panting with wide eyes. Despite his obviously much larger form he kept his hands defensively in front of him, his feet taking a firm stance in the wet dirt.

For a moment all you did was stare at each other, confused and perturbed in every sense of the word. 

“I… I can see through you. Thought… thought you, uh, might like to know that,” he said, and you could feel the smoothness of his voice in your mind, how warm it was and as deep as the sea his eyes held. You could barely understand him through a thick accent you’d never heard before.

“I know,” was all you could think to say. “I’m (Y/N). The, uh, one on th’ grave.”

He frowned, disbelieving. “No you’re not,” he claimed.

“I am. I can’t believe you can see me, actually, I haven’t been visible for many a year.”

“How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“Lying is a sin. I’m also see through.”

“Good point,” he mumbled gruffly, pocketing his notebook in another absurdly large coat pocket and wrapping the fur tight around him. He glanced at you warily, almost a scowl, before turning and going back inside the church. With light steps you followed, watching him sit down and start another fire.

With a bright spark a small flame started, growing higher and higher till it began to burn through large bricks of wood. You had so many questions for him, practically vibrating to hold back your need to ask them. What was life like? How many people were there? What new things had been found? Why had the church been abandoned?

At last when you couldn’t contain it anymore, you asked your most pertinent question.

“What’s your name?”

You leaned closer, kneeling beside him, eager for an answer. His eyes darted up at you from his crouched position, looking quickly back at the fire when he caught your gaze.

“Bucky,” he mumbled.

“Thas’ a nice name there,” you said quietly, matching his volume. “Was it yer’ fathers?”

“No,” he answered curtly.

“Oh. My name was a family name. Don’t mean much now I s’pose.”

In sudden movements he turned his body to face you, asking, “how long have you been here?”

“A good while now,” you shrugged. You hadn’t bothered to count the days, thinking it’d surely drive you mad.

“So you’ve been, uh, watching me,” he confirmed, his eyebrows still knitted together crossly.

“A tad. I think yer… interesting,” you settled on, smiling sweetly as you tried to catch his eye that had wandered to the ground.

“Hardly,” he muttered, turning back to the fire. You hummed, keeping your frown to yourself.

You only waited a few more seconds before asking more questions.

“What’s life like now? A haven’ been able t’ see for m’self.”

“Loud and crowded.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we breathe underwater?”

He turned to you, an amused but befuddled expression on his face.

“Not that I know of,” he answered. “Are you gonna leave me alone or not?”

You shifted uncomfortably, keeping your shoulders tense as you wondered whether you should lie to him or not. Could you even go back to being invisible?

“A don’t know. I cannae leave the church, but I s’pose I could try to go invisible,” you suggested meekly. “Why can’t you leave? Since you don’t like me.”

“I didn’t say that,” he snapped quickly, glancing to you for a second before looking right back at his well tended fire. “Don’t bother. With the whole invisible thing.”

“Oaye,” you said with a nod, curling up beside him, wondering if you’d ever achieve a form to feel warmth.

The two of you sat quietly, him staring at the fire unblinking, and you watching both the flames and him. Once a few minutes had passed, you noticed his eyes reddening with tears, a few trailing down his cheeks.

“You alright?”

“Yes. My eyes just burn,” he explained quickly, taking his sleeve and wiping them away with a sniff. You looked over the coat, noticing how warm it must’ve kept him.

“Where’d y’ get th’ coat?”

“… a friend,” he grumbled.

“Is very nice,” you commented, holding back the urge to reach out. It looked so soft, the fur fluttering in the wind, but you knew you wouldn’t have felt it no matter.

He grunted, but otherwise stayed silent. In all truth he felt very little animosity towards you, as you hadn’t done a mean thing yet, but as in all cases of meeting people, he was wary. Careful. You noticed this behavior, and to his gratefulness, respected his need for distance.

As the sky grew dark he tightened the drooping robes around him, sealing himself in warmth. Glancing quickly at him you noticed tired eyes, and began counting down the minutes to when he would fall asleep. You leaned forward, flames licking away at your unfeeling cheek.

“You going t’ sleep?”

“No,” he said, his eyes suddenly opening wide as he grasped at his large coat blanket, the creases growing larger with tension.

“Is fine if ye do. I’ll… go outside.”

You dwelled in his silence, watching carefully for his movement. A few more seconds of waiting proved fruitful as he slowly shifted, lumbering to his feet, and half waddling over to his makeshift bed. 

“The sheep need t’ be sheared. Could make a nice bed,” you commented in a dismissive manner, floating on through the wall. Inside you heard a soft _flump_ , and the sound of ragged breath as the fire dimmed to an ember. 

Though you’d spent forever in solitude, it felt eons longer waiting for the sun. It was the first time since you died that you were able to talk to someone and earn a reply - the feeling, though anxious, was divine, and for a moment it felt as though you were real. That you were material, that you mattered, but you knew better. Everything would remind you that you knew better. You could stand in fire and survive, wade in the deepest oceans if only not tied to your headstone. 

And you could not feel his touch. Not once did you even try, and neither did he, out of respect for his boundaries, and fear of your own sheer existence. 

Perhaps you one day would feel. Your sensory deprivation was a special kind of hell, but you held hope, a thing that was not deserved.

The mornings arrival brought an end to dark thoughts. You stuck your head through the wall, watching the mound of blankets in the corner rise to reveal a dark matted head of hair. He stretched his arms high, letting out a light yawn before he stood.

“Mornin’ Bucky,” you said, shifting through the rest of the wall with a bright and friendly smile. He mumbled incoherently to himself, rubbing his face. “Anything t’ do today?”

“Going into town.”

You wanted desperately to come with. So much so in fact, that you almost asked, before remembering that it was futile anyways. You watched him sling bags over his shoulders, tightening belts and pulling his massive coat onto his arms.

“What are y’ gonna get?” You asked instead, eyes trailing after him as he left the church.

“You’ll see,” he said, which was not at all comforting. You frowned, making a grumbling noise to indicate your dissatisfaction with your answer. As he left you could see him just barely smile.

Patiently you waited, seated atop your grave, letting your finger drift through the grass, watching it part just slightly. With great concentration you could move tiny parts of the physical world, but it was never something you quite needed to do. What with being dead and all, you had close to no necessities, except an endless boredom which you’d gotten quite good at curbing.

When at last his matted hair rose above the grassy hills in the distance you looked up, watching him as he walked closer. His bag, hanging from his right shoulder, drooped heavily from his body, weighing down and creasing the material. He came to stand in front of you, dropping to his knees. Quietly, you watched him dig into the bag, pulling out a strange, silver rectangular object, decorated with knobs and dips all over it.

“What is it?” You asked, letting your hand phase through it.

“Called a radio. Got it at a thrift store,” he told you in a mumble, keeping his voice low. While you had absolutely no idea what a radio was or a thrift store (you could safely assume things were bought and sold there), a grin parted your lips.

“What’s it do?” You tried to interact physically with it, pressing a knob and letting it turn. In fascination you giggled, your eyes wide as you watched the different knobs turn.

“Plays music. Or just voices,” he said, pressing a button to the side of it.

Out of the silver box sprang a tune, singing brightly through crackling noises, filling up the old abandoned graveyard. You laughed, astounded at the sound, feeling your heart burst with joy. It had been so long you’d gone without music - it hadn’t ever crossed your mind, but now that you could hear it once more, you realized just how much you needed it.

“Woah! That’s… fantastic!” You gasped, getting down on the ground to look at the box from a different angle. “Where are the voices comin’ from?”

“Um… they can record sound now, and replay it, so that’s… kind of what’s happening,” he tried to explain, doing a poor job of it and drifting off when he found he had little idea what he was talking about. You didn’t mind though. All that mattered was that the voices were singing brightly, and that he’d done this for you.

“Thank you, so much,” you said with an air of amazement, looking up at him from your position on the ground.

“It’s just a thing,” he mumbled.

“Not to me.”

He swallowed thickly, turning away from you with a red face. You laughed, closing your eyes to enjoy the music more. Lying down, your hands intertwined on your chest, you could hear it better, just listening to the melody and the instruments you could never name. He listened just the same, keeping his eye on the horizon, and his knees close to his chest.

For a good while he sat with you, his foot tapping up and down anxiously and much faster than the beat of the music. When a particularly slow song ended he stood, stepping over your body even though he could’ve walked straight through. Societal norms, you explained to yourself, relaxing right back into the music.

When night approached the music stopped, and instead voices came. Just talking to each other, having some sort of conversation. Still you listened, absorbing the information they gave and understanding little.

You opened your eyes to the stars, and listening a little too closely to the voices you were surprised to see Bucky suddenly standing above you, covered in his furs and looking as tall and mean as ever.

“Are you coming inside?” Was all he asked, but the question confused you. Did he want you inside? Why would he want you inside? You would never actually voice these questions, but watching him stare at you with a rather angry expression, you needed to answer. 

“Uh - yes! Of course,” you said, stumbling to your feet. He grunted, reaching down to turn off the radio and gather it in his arms. You followed behind him into the church, hearing the fire crackle before you could see it. Inside was warm as ever, the light dancing in tandem with the shadows, intertwining around his shadow body and ignoring you entirely.

With a soft _fwump_ he sat on the ground, on a rather soft looking cushion that you hadn’t seen before. Sitting beside him caused no creases, but gravity still seemed to work on you, making your body lean into his, but you pulled yourself away, still refraining from touching him.

He acted a very sensitive fellow, and though quiet and brooding, you knew saying little did not mean he felt little. On the contrary the people you’d met who were quiet often felt emotion intensely, and watching him set the radio on the ground gingerly, you kept this in mind. 

“It ’twas very kind of ye t’ get me that,” you said quietly, tilting your head to him with the prettiest eyes you could manage. He stiffened, pursing his lips together. This time he had no answer for you, just a silent and tiny turn of the head away from you.

Still you smiled, letting it reach your eyes and crinkle the pale, dead skin there. 

The rest of the evening he wrote in his little book, turning away from you whenever you tried to peer over his shoulder.

“I cannae read it anyway, yer handwritin’ is godawful,” you grumbled, crossing your arms. 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he replied, and you didn’t really know what principle meant, but he smiled, so you did as well. After that, despite telling you off so many times, he let you look over his shoulder. You kept at a safe distance, watching him write but not near enough to be breathing in his ear.

As the fire began to dim he closed up the book, setting another log on the fire to keep it going till he fell asleep. You sat to the side of his pillow as he lay down, bringing the blankets over his body.

“What do ye write about in there?” You asked quietly, watching him intently as light flickered across his face. He sighed, rolling onto his side and looking up at you.

“My day. Or friends, sometimes memories,” he answered in an almost solemn tone, gentle and quiet.

“Memories?”

“I don’t remember stuff well. So when I do, I write it down,” he explained, half mumbling into his pillow. “I dunno, it’s stupid.”

“I think it’s sweet,” you hummed, running your hand over the stone of the floor. Lately you’d been practicing interacting more with the world, what with being visible again. He made a grumbling noise that sounded a bit like he was choking, pulling the blankets up to his nose. “What about your friends?”

“What about them,” he said flatly, voice muffled by the blanket.

“What are they like?”

Pondering your question before he answered, he shifted beneath the covers.

“I only have two,” he started, but you quickly interrupted.

“And me,” you said, earning a dissatisfied grunt.

“You’re dead.”

“And I don’t matter any less,” you defended. He hummed in quiet agreement before continuing.

“Steve’s nice. Big guy, bigger than me.”

You didn’t think that possible - Bucky was already enormous compared to you and everyone you knew.

“Then there’s… uh, Sam. I guess he counts. He’s a bit of an ass really,” he chuckled and you followed. “I forgot about Natasha. She’s a good fighter. Did a lot of shit to get like that, too.”

“Sounds like a fun group,” you said. He nodded, yawning and closing his eyes. You left it at that, waiting till his breathing was rough and even till you left to stare at the stars, and wonder what they might condemn or bless you to. 

In the morning he came outside, sitting beside you before you even realized he was awake. Yawning, wrapped in his fur blankets the two of you stared out over the ocean. He kept silent, the slow breathing matching the crashing movement of the waves. 

“I was thinking,” he said, his voice a murmur like the crackling of a dying storm. You turned, facing him, your head supported by your knees. “What ties you to your grave?”

“Probably my body.”

“Wouldn’t it have decomposed by now?”

“Decomp-what?”

“Long explanation,” he said, looking like he regretted bringing it up. “But I don’t think your body is… there anymore.”

“Who took it?”

“The ground did.”

“Oh.”

“So if it’s not your body, what do you think is tying you there?”

“My name holds power,” you said, recalling different tales. “Given to a witch she has power o’er me. Given to you, you may see me. It might be that.”

“What do you think’ll happen if we… erased your name from the headstone?” He asked, glancing in your direction but not fully meeting your gaze.

“Might disappear. Might be tied to you,” you shrugged.

“Tied to me?”

“You’ve got my name written in that there book,” you said, pointing towards his notebook poking out of his pocket. Shifting, he tucked it in deeper. He mumbled something you couldn’t quite hear, and patiently you asked him to repeat himself.

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” he said louder, still mumbling, a red blush gracing his cheeks that you could just barely see behind his falling hair.

“No,” you said, brushing his hair behind his ear. He shivered, fighting to lean into and away from your touch. “It wouldn’t be bad at all. Just… make sure you don’t lose your notebook.”

“Right,” he murmured.

Later that day you sat on your gravestone, watching as below you he took a stone, scratching out your name.

“Tell me if you feel something change,” he said, wiping the dust off the first letter gone. You nodded silently, somehow knowing you’d be alright. And if you weren’t, that’d be fine too. You’d been tied to your grave for far too long to care. 

As the last letter of your last name was swiped away, you expected something - an emotion, a movement, but nothing in the world swayed. All that was remained, including you, staring at the man before you. 

“I s’pose I belong t’ you now,” you murmured with a smile, one he easily returned.

“Guess so.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No..,” he said quietly, his fingers hovering over yours, tangling till they connected with yours. “Not at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> i used the myth that the first person buried in a graveyard is the person that guides every other person to the afterlife, but is cursed to forever roam the earth. idk what the actual legend is but thats the part i know, and thats the explanation for why you're the only ghost.


End file.
